


To Die, to Sleep, to Live

by Elfpen



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: ? - Freeform, A new hope, Afterlife, Alternate Universe, Angst, Death Star, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Maybe - Freeform, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4981840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfpen/pseuds/Elfpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan Kenobi dies. He wakes up. He cries. As an entirely negligible footnote, he still hates flying. Set on a semi-existent plane floating somewhere in the vicinity of everywhere, at this particular instance around the Death Star following Obi-Wan's death. (I swear, despite the warning it's a very happy oneshot).</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Die, to Sleep, to Live

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a self-indulgent idiot and I have no excuse. I'm so sorry for this sugar-coated trash.

When Obi-Wan Kenobi died, he broke down crying.

Not right away, obviously. Dying is an unexpectedly involved process, and for several long moments after his heart stopped beating, Obi-Wan was preoccupied with the job of shutting down his systems, yanking bits of soul from flesh and ultimately leaving his body behind. Anyone who has ever done this can tell you: severing the links between your body and soul stings like the ever-loving blazes. Living people have no way of knowing this, of course, but anyone who's ever died would tell you they were glad of their ignorance beforehand. Obi-Wan was no different. He felt as though he had screamed when it happened, or at least he _should_ have been screaming. Can a soul in the process of being disembodied scream? He wasn't sure. After he was done, he screamed again for good measure, because honestly _kriff that,_ and promptly passed out.

Alright, so spirits can't pass out. Can they? Force, this was confusing. At any rate, there was a thick cloud of _nothing_ after it the whole thing happened, and whether he was unconscious or just unprecedentedly disoriented, after a few moments he 'woke up', as it were, in a completely unexpected place.

It was only unexpected because before this whole _dying_ thing had happened, Obi-Wan hadn't _expected_ anything. He would die, he would become one with the Force, and that would be that. No more Obi-Wan. And yet here he was. Where _here_ happened to be, he didn't know.

He _did_ know, by the lingering sting and some ethereal knowledge, that he was well and truly dead. That matter was not up for debate. Moreover, he knew that being dead did not bother him one iota. He felt… at peace. It was a foolish thing for him to have ever been apprehensive about the venture. Being dead was… quite nice, actually.

But new. Very new. _Novel._ He sat up – what? He had a body? It was a body, sort of. But it was completely under his control, completely united with his luminous self in a way he'd never experienced. He could feel the fibers of his fingers and his legs, control his muscles in an easy, perfect way that disregarded age, size, strength, training, and all those other pesky _gross_ things that had dictated him in the living world. He was dead, and he had a new body, and it was just like his old one, but it was _perfect,_ free of the faults and deficiencies of his life left behind. He surveyed his own hands, and was surprised to see he had crisp cream-colored tunic sleeves swishing around his wrists. He willed it, and the rest of his robes appeared over his body.

Oh, and that was nice. He could control his clothes. Clothes! Clean, clean clothes, without sand or sweat or stains, and sweet _Force_ how long it'd been since he'd had proper new robes to enjoy. And hair! His hair was back, no longer wispy and white but thick and ginger, tidy waves hanging by his right temple. He willed it, and it was so: his beard was back to how he'd always liked it best, trim and toeing the line between rouge and diplomat. A surge of giddy confidence swept through him, ageless dimples dotting his checks beneath the beard. This was how he'd felt back in the good days, when they'd called him 'Negotiator' and he had a youthful swagger in his step. But he was better than that, now. Compared to what he had been, he was nothing, but he was also everything.

He was _dead,_ and Force, he had never felt so _alive._

It was in this supreme and perfect assurance that Obi-Wan stood up, bouncing in comfortable boots, and took a glance around at his unfamiliar surroundings. That was when he realized that he wasn't alone, that others had been waiting for him to come to his new self, patiently, expectantly, lovingly. He recognized them.

 _That's_ when Obi-Wan broke down crying.

His master was the first one there, and he was laughing. Truly, actually _laughing,_ in the same stream of uncontainable, unreleasable emotion that sent Obi-Wan down to the ground in tears. The taller man – he looked so much _younger_ than Obi-Wan remembered – grabbed him and hugged, as if he'd been poised and waiting to do this for decades. For all Obi-Wan knew, he had.

"Took you long enough, Brat." Qui-Gon Jinn said, brown (not silver) mustache tilted in a wide smile.

Obi-Wan continued to cry. He didn't want to. Force, he wanted to speak, to ask questions, to say things he'd never gotten to say in life, to articulate the magnitude of what this man meant to him, what seeing him again meant to him, to confirm that he was _actually here,_ to confirm that this was _real_ in a real sense,but his breath (damn, did he still need to breathe?) was stolen by sobs of unrestrained relief and shock. He managed to grab a shoulder and pull it toward him. Qui-Gon's laugh fell into a soft, understanding chuckle, and he returned the hug in a comforting way.

"Don't worry," he told his former apprentice, "I did, too."

At some indefinable point, the sobs turned into laughter, and his face hurt because he'd begun smiling into Qui-Gon's shoulder for reasons he couldn't quite understand. He pulled back and got his first good look at the man without (that many) tears to block his view. He hardly recognized his old master – _young_ master, it would seem, now looking almost the same age as is own rejuvenated self. Was there age in death?

"Hello there," He managed, perhaps the most meaningfully lame two words he'd ever uttered. Qui-Gon guffawed, drawing a chorus of chuckles from the crowd behind. This sound drew Obi-Wan's attention, and when his eyes focused, his face fell into shock once more. For the second time in the last few heartbeats, he couldn't speak. This time, he couldn't even _cry._

"Come on, then, Padawan," Qui-Gon nudged him, standing with an extended hand. He pulled Obi-Wan to his feet, but the newly deceased could naught but remain exactly where he was, staring.

The others' wide smiles faltered, just slightly, and some exchanged glances with each other. There had not, for a very, very long time, been anyone put in Obi-Wan's position. He'd been alone for so long, isolated in the desert, grieving behind a smile, a pilot light in the dark. Second only to Yoda, he was the very last Jedi from the Old Order. And so, upon his arrival here, there was not a generation, but an entire _world_ of long-lost faces to take in. And Force, how long, how so very, painfully long he'd been lost without them.

Tahl spearheaded the next movement. Obi-Wan was too overwhelmed to come to them, so she went over to him and embraced him like a son.

"Welcome home," she whispered with a smile. Numbly, he brought his hands up and around her waist in a childlike hug, ears ringing in dumbfounded emotion. Qui-Gon smiled at him over her shoulder, and when she drew back she mirrored the look. He made a sound in his throat that he had intended to be words, and she chuckled, patting his scruffy cheek. "It's fine, padawan."

A flood of people came toward him then, all perfect and untainted, in their favored robes and uninjured bodies. Tahl's eyes were clear, Mace Windu's hands were whole, Even Piell had _two_ good eyes, and Plo Koon had no use for his breathing mask here. Then, Siri Tachi elbowed her way through the throng, her smile carefree, her shoulders and brow no longer drawn quite so taught by the spitfire steel she'd needed in life. She grabbed his face in her hands and pulled him down for a deep kiss, savoring it in front of everyone without a solitary scrap of shame. When he opened his eyes she gave him an elated, entirely _Siri_ smile that he'd never seen on her before, and he really, _really_ wished he could find his voice again.

As if reading his mind, Qui-Gon pushed his way through the crowd of Jedi and slung a long arm around Obi-Wan's shoulders

"I… I want to… How is this… I can't…" Obi-Wan choked, trying to speak. Qui-Gon gave his shoulder a pat.

"Give it time, Obi-Wan, give it time," he encouraged quietly. Then, his eyes gleamed in that oh-so-familiar way, and he gently dragged Obi-Wan down a hall, (wait, had that been there, before?) the other Jedi following behind in an excited buzz of conversation.

"In the _here and now,_ however," Qui-Gon intoned teasingly, "we've all been terribly engrossed by the melodramatic scene you've just made of yourself, and are dying –if you'll forgive the pun – to find out what happens next."

Obi-Wan blinked through another layer of confusion and looked up to where Qui-Gon had steered their attention. Wait a moment, that was… that was _Luke._ They were on the Death Star, on some other plane, some immaterial place that saw all, touched all and yet nothing. His cloak was still there, sans body – _Ha! Take that, funeral pyre, -_ and oh dear, his death seemed to have struck a nerve with Luke – don't fret, you silly boy! I'm fine. Pull yourself together. You've got work to do – and stop being so cocky! Damn Skywalker blood. All the same. You're flying isn't worth poodoo if you can't… no, not like that. Sweet Force, no, not like that. He hated flying. Even dead, he hated flying. It was so _frustrating._ For the love of…Use the Force, Luke, you overconfident gundark!

Qui-Gon chuckled at his side.

Had he said all of that out loud?

"Yes – it's good to hear your voice again, my friend," His master's eyes crinkled a bit. "Now you know how _I_ felt all those years."

"Oh," Obi-Wan said, suddenly bashful of his own voice. Qui-Gon gave Obi-Wan a shove forward.

"Go help your green-skilled apprentice focus," He said playfully. "I've already told Master Yoda to expect him, it wouldn't do for him to show up late."

Not knowing quite what he was doing, Obi-Wan stepped forward, craning his neck this way and that like a mother watching her preteen son play his first match of little league limmie, wincing at the right times and snapping at non-existent referees. Drawing upon the sacred teachings of the Whills with every flippant and parental fiber of his being, Obi-Wan cupped his mouth, mustered a masterly voice, and shouted:

"Use the _Force,_ Luke!" At least, he hoped it sounded sagely and wise, not as frantic as he felt.

Luke seemed to hear him, and the Force rang with _rightness._ The ensuing explosion was a sad thing, from a certain point of view, but watching it from their separate plane in space, it was almost like fireworks – the Jedi all cheered. Their traditional stoicism had no place here. There was no dark to shield against, only light, and the light sang, echoing their passions back at them in pure, untouchable form. Obi-Wan smiled proudly at the hoots and hollers of victory ringing from this world and the one he'd left behind. Qui-Gon approached again, coming to stand just behind Obi-Wan's left shoulder.

"Concisely put, my friend. This will be an epic worthy of the most extravagant of annals entries, I'm sure. Jocasta Nu will be anxious to hear your personal account." _Will_ be. The thought of seeing the old archivist made Obi-Wan smile. Qui-Gon slapped a hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder and turned them about face. A path was fading into view, calming brown marble from the Old Temple, come to lead them back through the halls of memory. "But just now, I think I deserve a proper hello from you, young one."

Obi-Wan found his laugh again, and wrapped his arm around Qui-Gon in kind. "I've missed you, Master," he said, a small lump still in his throat.

"Well, no more," the older Jedi soothed. "Come. We've much to discuss."

Smiling with his younger face, somehow the same age of his old master in this afterlife, Obi-Wan wiped a residual tear from his eye and fell into step with Qui-Gon. He glanced back at Tahl, at Siri, at Mace and the others, some he had known, some he had only heard about from his elders. Some of them waved to him. He smiled back and bowed his head. They'd be there when they returned. There, and on Coruscant, and on Tatooine, and everywhere he went, they could travel and follow him and show him new things. He had a whole galaxy, a whole _universe_ to re-explore, and he needn't go alone for another second. He turned his eyes back toward the path before he and his master. Obi-Wan nodded, heart alight.

"Yes," he said, peace surging through the Force like a great, giddying tide, "I rather think we have."


End file.
